


By insensible degrees

by jonasnightingale



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Gen, I Don't Even Know, no beta we die like men, scarred people doing their darndest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:27:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29800176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonasnightingale/pseuds/jonasnightingale
Summary: Anthony realises he and Penelope share more than meets the eye. Short introspective.
Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton & Penelope Featherington, Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington
Comments: 11
Kudos: 69





	By insensible degrees

He has known her for more than half his years, has witnessed the milestones of her life quite by accident, an incidental occurrence brought upon them by proximity and Eloise’s preoccupation with talking of the other girl ad-nauseam. And he has known, for too long, the true state of her household, the dark whispers that float from their staff, the even darker threats thrown around the boxing ring. It is, after all, his job to know these things. But he has always held his tongue on the matter, welcomed her into their home without reserve.

He’s quite certain she knows too, all of it. She is observant, and sharp as a whip; whatever else her modesty and blustering may conceal he has always known she possessed a keen intelligence.One had to but listen to a minute of discourse between herself and Eloise to know that they were equally matched in smarts far superior to the average member of the ton. Anthony reads the hesitance on Penelope whenever El loans her something of value, whenever she turns to walk back across the street. And there are moments when their eyes meet and the sadness in her gaze is so familiar. 

They both bear the weight of their families, the traumas of their parents.

Anthony had been but a child one day, a Viscount the next. Wrapping his head around the positions responsibilities whilst trying to shoulder his families grief, his own guilt. He had been daydreaming and laughing and enamoured with the world, and then so swiftly shackled with its burdens within a moment. Accountable suddenly for the wellbeing of seven siblings, a shattered mother, and an entire staff. 

He could scarcely remember, what it was, to not weigh each decision and wonder, is this where it goes wrong? It’s all a juggling act that he’s certain each day he will lose. And he keeps waiting for it all fall apart around him. 

And when he’s facing his best friend down the barrel of a pistol, Anthony thinks ‘but of course it should end like this’. 

For just a moment, a chill breeze whips around him and Anthony thinks how nice it would be to have everything conclude in such a simple way. Such a neat bookend to the mess that this past decade has been. To die for the honour of defending his sister. There could be no doubt then that he had fulfilled his duty. But his gaze flicks to Benedict, to the fear painted clear on his expression, and Anthony knows his duty is far from done. He cannot impose yet more grief upon them. He cannot take Benedict’s freedom the way his had been so abruptly snatched away. So he levels the gun at Simon - _Simon_ , who had snuck bottles of rum into their lectures, who’d been thrown from the library for cheering so loud at news of Fran’s birth, who had pulled him by the hand into a dark tent and introduced him to the world of boxing, whose heart he knew more readily than his own - and prepares to sacrifice one more piece of himself for this family. 

* * *

The crowd goes quiet around them and then quite loud. Colin is standing beside Marina announcing their engagement and Anthony mentally runs through every thing he knows about this girl before reaching the inevitable conclusion, she is Penelope’s cousin. His eyes dart to Pen, shell-shocked where she stands in an attire so seperate from the garish gowns her mother prefers. And it’s so different on the surface - five men in the cold brisk of dawn with loaded weapons versus this perfect day warming a party with it’s sunshine - but he knows that at it’s core these moments are mirrors. 

She will give up this part of her, the wing of her heart that has always belonged so staunchly to his foolish brother, to protect them from harm. She will not make them bear the weight of her disappointments, will not encroach upon their happiness with her own heartache. She will place her desires last, shove them beaten and bruised into some box within her chest. Both for the sake of Marina, and for the Bridgerton’s. 

He is stunned to realise that she wears the weight of their reputation heavily on her shoulders. Just as he has been careful to not let the tarnish of her name impede their family friendship, she has been careful to not let it taint their good standing. She so seldom has approached them, at balls even when she would catch their gaze she never stepped towards them first; and she would always demur at the offer for an escort home. She was protecting them just as staunchly as he himself had always tried.

Something in him unfurls at the realisation, some quiet solidarity, and he feels the tense of his shoulders deepen as his gaze moves to the happy couple, to the gaggle of congratulatory smiles Penelope has not yet dared to breach.

* * *

He smiles at her over his cup, at her description of walking in on Cressida’s bridal fitting - “I thought it had snowed indoors, the modiste was simply lathered in bunches of white tulle, tulle hanging from the curtain rods, the door frames…”. She doesn’t shy from his gaze the way she has his brothers, has no need to flare with humility at his quips. This is how their days pass now, in a constant chatter of weddings, nuptials, children to be made and born, celebrations to be planned. Hours of their lives are sacrificed to the discussion of flowers, and children’s names, and wedding vows. And somehow through the years, they have become the push and pull, the ones bickering over colour palates and themes, the ones bringing structure to vague honeymoon plans. And inevitably, at the celebrations, the ones solving problems and passing around water and providing distraction when the babes start to tear. This they can do, ensure the others are happy, celebrate the wins they no longer dare to hope for themselves. 

Eloise marries, and they are officially the last ones left - save Hyacinth and Gregory who have a few years yet before they are out of leading strings. No more weddings on the horizon to prepare, an expanse of time ahead of them where white dresses may be staunchly avoided. But Eloise is draped around his arm as she so rarely does, her tone quiet and pleading, every bit the annoying little sister, “ _Brother, dance with Pen, pleaasse_.” And he grants her request with a curt nod, as he is bound to, takes Penelope’s hand and leads her to the dance floor. But for once, he does not consider it a sacrifice.

**Author's Note:**

> “Yes, I found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life were what I spent with her.”  
> ― Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility


End file.
